


moonstruck

by songs



Category: Six of Crows - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: M/M, honestly i am so in love with this pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 06:42:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7034101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songs/pseuds/songs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s always a bit strange, looking at Wylan. Jesper did a lot of that, back in the Ice Court. But he wonders if maybe he should be more subtle now. Without the life-or-death, do-or-die air about them, the teasing has dipped into something a bit gentler, a touch more sincere.</p>
<p><i>Again with the sappy, farmboy heart,</i> Jesper muses. <i>Relax, for Saints’ sake. It’s just Wylan.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	moonstruck

☽

 

For days, everything is deceptively slow. Jesper knows better than to trust the calm— in fact, the Barrel has taught him to distrust most anything. But Jesper is acutely aware of what’s to come. Such is the strange, dreamlike time between job and job— or in this case, heist and heist. They’re going to save Inej. This is simply a lull before the storm.

 

See, Jesper is not a poet. But he’s lived a poetic sort of life— a childhood in Noyvi Zem, surrounded by orchards and green, his hands always busy with hard, clean work. Then he grew up. Traded cattle-feed for cards, soil for pearl-handles. Traded one longing for another.

 

_You can take the boy off the farm, but you can’t take the farm out of the boy._ He often teases Wylan for being soft, but Jesper is often softer. He thinks of his beginnings at the Barrel, trailing after Kaz like a moonstruck stray. Firsts are always the hardest. And also the most embarrassing.

 

Now, Jesper yawns, pleasantly buzzed and unpleasantly light in pocket-money. His wallet had taken beating at the gambling-house, earlier. It always takes a beating, actually, but what’s he to do? There’s a thrill, in being pushed to the edge. He felt in Fjerdan, felt it when he first met Kaz, felt it whenever Wylan blushed at one of his offhand, flirty comments.

 

Jesper loves the rush, but hates the fallout. The cold, sinking feeling. The stone-on-stone voice: _You’re the reason we were ambushed._ The Shu-golden eyes, watching him on the Ferolind.

_Why didn’t you tell me?_

Jesper swallows. He makes his way to the Slat, fumbles up the stairs to his room. Anika and Pim are chatting up in the halls, and he ignores them. Soon, he’ll be heading out of this place again. It seems silly to call it home. But it is, in a way, and it isn’t. Rather than walk the last flight to the fifth floor, he stops on the forth, and decides to take one more gamble.

 

Wylan’s room is hardly a room— it’s a corner-closet of a living space, but it does the job. Kaz purposefully kept it in a discreet spot, farther from the others. Now, with Wylan’s— _situation_ , he’s hardly been leaving the Slat, except for when Kaz had him spirited away for a briefing, or whatever-the-hell-else it was that they kept secret from Jesper.

 

_Stop being bitter,_ he thinks to himself, _just earn the trust back. Brick by brick._

He knocks twice, pauses, and knocks twice again. A childish code, but Wylan seems amused by it, so Jesper keeps it up. A second later, the door clicks, and Jesper is beaming down at Wylan van Eck.

 

“Merchling,” he greets, grinning.

 

“Come in,” Wylan says, rolling his eyes.

 

It’s always a bit strange, looking at Wylan. Jesper did a lot of that, back in the Ice Court. But he wonders if maybe he should be more subtle now. Without the life-or-death, do-or-die air about them, the teasing has dipped into something a bit gentler, a touch more sincere.

_Again with the sappy, farmboy heart,_ Jesper muses. _Relax, for Saints’ sake. It’s just Wylan._

And— _Wylan._ Wylan is starting to look more like Wylan with each passing day. Which isn’t a particularly fair way to put it. Even with Kuwei’s features, it’s still very clearly Wylan’s face— what with the boyish, charming wonder that hasn’t left him yet (and Jesper carries a deep, deep hope that it never will), the inquisitive gaze, the pouting lips. A bit of blond has nestled back into the oil-black of his hair. Some of the curls have returned along his nape. And his eyes— _Saints—_ those damn, pretty eyes, neither sea nor sun, but someplace in-between, now. Fucking hell, Jesper is not a poet, but he might well become one, soon enough. He’s tempted to lie, to say, _I’d know that face anywhere._ But they all would know it’s not true. Van Eck and the others can attest to that.

 

Jesper flings himself onto Wylan’s cot. Wylan snorts in turn, sitting back at his desk. Papers and sketches are strewn along the wooden surface. If Jesper were in a pettier mood, he’d ask Wylan just what he was doing. _Pouring over another diamond-drill? A flute of Grisha-glass?_ But seeing Wylan has brightened his mood somewhat. That little idiot of a genius.

 

They’re both quiet for some time, and Jesper debates for a few more minutes, before clearing his throat and asking, “Say, Wonder Boy.”

 

Wylan immediately snaps, “Don’t call me Wonder Boy.”

 

Jesper grins. “Alright, alright. _Wylan_ —” He _relishes_ the blush creeping up the other boy’s neck. “—you’re good at taking things apart, right?”

 

Wylan’s expression changes. “I’d say so.”

 

“How about putting them back together?”

 

“Well,” Wylan says, thoughtfully, “it should be just the same.”

 

Jesper hesitates, only for a second. Then he unfastens one of the pearl-handled revolvers from his belt.

 

Wylan says, “I’ll scream if you shoot,” but the hitch in his voice holds no fear. More like—

 

“Ye of little faith,” Jesper teases. He steps towards Wylan, who hasn’t moved a muscle. Then he hands the gun to him.

 

“Tinker away,” he says. “Just make sure to put it back together.”

 

Wylan gawks at him. His eyes dart between Jesper and the gun, like he’s trying to solve some page-long, math equation. Like Jesper is some archaic sheet of music he wants to swallow whole, to learn inside out.

 

He asks, “Why?”

 

Jesper’s smile softens. _Because life’s short. Because we might be running on borrowed time. Because I’ve seen you at death’s door, at the edge of the grave, and have pulled you back as many times as you’ve saved me. Because I’ve seen you with blue eyes and gold eyes and skin-stars and not, and every face of yours is my favorite. Because you’re cute when you’re smart but you’re cuter when you blush._

Jesper says, “Because I trust you.”

 

_Do you trust me?_

Wylan answers by meeting his gaze, and searching his expression for a long, drawn-out moment. Then, he reaches out. Not for the gun, but for Jesper’s fingers, gripped around the holster. In a shy, deliberate motion, he brings Jasper’s dark knuckles to his mouth, and presses a furtive kiss along the skin and bone.

 

Jesper holds his breath. Wylan pulls away, cheeks almost as red as his lips. But he’s smiling, when he accepts the revolver.

 

“Me too,” he says.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i died reading six of crows, my ghost is the one that typed this up furiously......i need book 2 like i need air. i need these idiots to kiss!!!!


End file.
